Hetalia Story Dump
by Paperback-Walls
Summary: This is going to be a chapter-by-chapter of all of the Hetalia stories that I've posted to my DeviantART (RemyLeBeau4ever1). Each chapter will be one short story, since that's what they all are; short stories. I hope you like them! They will be from oldest posted to newest posted, and eventually, once I run out, I'll tell you in an Author's Note that from them on would be new stuff
1. Olymics are better when you're Hetalian

Alright guys!

This is going to be a chapter-by-chapter with all of the Hetalia stories that I've posted to my DeviantART (RemyLeBeau4ever1). Each chapter will be one short story, since that's what they all are; short stories. I hope you like them!

They will be from oldest posted to newest posted, and eventually, once I run out, I'll tell you in an Author's Note that from them on would be new stories, some that I may not have even put on DeviantART.

Enjoy number one! ^^

* * *

Here was the placing for the prelims for male swimming:

1. America (the HERO)  
2. Australia (G'day!)  
3. Britain (cupcake?)  
4. Russia (kolkol)  
5. China (-aru)  
6. Belgium (Nyo!)  
7. Canada (who?)  
8. Austria (LOL)

You have NO idea how much I was laughing at Austria being in last. NO. IDEA. Actually, I was laughing at pretty much all of it. Because the whole time I had a Hetalia scene running through my head. It went something like this.

All of the countries lined up at the edge of the pool, checking their goggles, fixing their bathing suits, stretching; the works. America, full of himself as usual, decided to taunt Britain some.

"Yo, Britain, dude!" America called over the blaring voice of the announcer talking about the women's swimming scoring. The Brit looked over with an irritated look on his face.

"What the bloody hell could you possibly want, America?" he snapped, cracking his knuckles. "They're about to start introducing us!"

"I wanna make a bet, bro!" he yelled obnoxiously with a flashy smile. "I beat you, and you gotta kiss France!"

"NO WAY IN HELL, YOU WANKER!" he shrieked. "I'D RATHER LET RUSSIA USE HIS PIPE ON ME!" Britain instantly regretted saying this as he heard a familiar laugh.

"Kolkolkolkolkolkolkol...You would~?" Russia chuckled darkly from his place beside Canada, who was cowering in fear of the taller man. Britain paled and almost broke into a sweat.

"N-NO! No, I was only kidding!" he squeaked. Russia kol'd again and turned away, mumbling something along the lines of "Whatever, you will all become one eventually..."

"Come on, Britain!" America yelled again. "Don't be a pussy!" Britain realized that he wouldn't get out of this no matter what, so he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, bugger. Fine, FINE, I'll do it," he sighed. America did a fist pump and cheered, but was silenced by Britain so he could continue. "BUT, if I beat YOU, then YOU have to kiss Russia!" America shrieked, and Russia kol'd again.

"NO WAY! NOT THE COMMIE!" America cried out. Suddenly Russia was behind him with a hand on his shoulder, and America almost cried.

"Kolkolkol, silly Amerika, why do you keep calling me communist? I'm not anymore," he protested, but he had a creepy smile on his face and he leaned closer to America. "Besides, is Hero Boy too much of a pussy to steal a kiss from Mother Russia~?"

America finally just decided to let it go.

"Fine! Fine, dude, you are SO on! I'm gonna kick your crumpet-eating ass into Tuesday!" he yelled challengingly. Britain scoffed and started cackling.

"Ahahahaha! America, you hamburger munching idiot, TODAY is Tuesday!" he laughed, and America scoffed and tossed a "whatever" his way, shoving Russia away from him and finishing up his stretching. China was chanting some sort of cheer to pump himself up, Belgium and Australia were testing each other's reflexes, and Austria...was having coffee with Hungary...

"Now remember, Austria," Hungary was saying as she fixed his goggles and hair and he drank his coffee, "don't get too tired! Go at a nice even pace until lap four, even slow if you need to, and then burst ALL your energy into the last lap! And then you'll win!" Austria nodded a little and got to his feet as the voice over the loudspeaker began to rile up the crowd and the watchers for their event.

"Ya, I got it," he said offhandedly, not at all concerned about losing as Hungary took his coffee and shooed him off to his marker. Canada set Mr. Kumajiro down on the bench and then sat beside him as he stretched out his legs, stopping every once and a while to tug down the small swimsuit the Canadian team was required to wear.

"A-Ah, Mr. Kumajiro, I don't feel comfortable in this outfit..." he mumbled nervously. "It keeps on getting tighter, it seems..."

"Who are you?" the bear asked, it's head tilted. Canada let out a little noise of frustration.

"I'm Canada, dang it!" he snapped, but it wasn't any sharper than his usual quiet tone. "I'm Canada," he repeated, getting up and walking to his mark.

"In lane four, swimming for Canada, we have Matthew Williams!" the announcer boomed. As his name was called over the loudspeaker, Canada pulled his orange-tinted goggles down over his eyes and looked at his scrawny white reflection in the water.

"I'm Canada, and I can do this!" he yelled out as loud as he could; which was still moderately quiet, and no one but himself heard it.

"On the mark, go!" a voice different from the one over the loudspeaker called, and then the horn sounded.

All of the countries leapt in at once, America immediately taking the lead, followed by the massive Russia. Canada almost immediately fell behind, but he wasn't last. Austria was. He did the total opposite of what Hungary had told him, and he was trailing by at least a full person behind everyone else. The race seemed to drag on forever, and with the crowd cheering and the announcer going at a commentary, America was finding it hard to focus.

"Damn it, why can't the Olympics be nice and quiet, huh?" he mumbled to himself. As he kicked off lap three, he shot a glance at Britain, who was barely behind him. "Yo, Britain!" he called, and the other blonde looked over for a split second to signal that he was listening. "You're country's loud!" He laughed out loud the next time his face came up.

"I know!" he cackled. "Isn't it great?"

America just chuckled at his older brother/father figure and focused his attention back on kicking his legs. By the end of the lap, it was clear that America would win; he was ahead of everyone by at least the length of two people. Near the halfway point of the last lap, though, Australia was getting sort of close to America. Too close, if you asked him. He kept up his pace, not letting him intimidate him in the slightest. But England was slipping. He was getting tired, and Australia passed him up. Despite wanting to beat him, America did feel a bit bad for him. He didn't even realize that his hand touched the wall when it did.

But the horn blew. He snapped out of his thoughts and then the announcer was back, saying that he won. And that Australia had placed before Britain.

"Hey, yo, Britain!" America called, jogging over to the blonde sitting on the bench. He was still panting from the ordeal, but he looked up at him with a grin anyway.

"Hey, America! Looks, looks like you win, huh?" he chuckled, still on an adrenaline rush from the event. America chuckled and sat beside him, ruffling his hair a bit and making him laugh even more.

"I told you I was gonna, bro!" he laughed, playing the "I'm the hero!" card again.

"Ahh, that you did," he admitted good-naturedly, "but, I did make third place; and I WOULD have made second if that blasted Aussie hadn't cut in front!" America laughed and gave him a light punch to the arm.

"True that, dude!" he chuckled. "So, you wanna check out the other scores, bro? I think I saw little Canada, and he wasn't in last!"

"Is that right?" Britain asked, still slightly confused as to which one Canada was. America nodded and pulled him up off the bench.

"Yeah, totally! C'mon, man!" he said excitedly, pulling him toward the giant screen displaying the scores.

Canada watched them walk past as he sat and tried to catch his breath.

"I...I wasn't last, Mr. Kumajiro..." he panted, shaking out his wet hair. Somehow the one long curl stayed totally dry. Or at least it had dried quickly. His bear didn't say anything this time, but he didn't mind. He probably hadn't noticed that he was talking to him. "But, but who was?" He looked up at the screen.

1. America: Alfred Jones  
2. Australia:  
3. Great Britain: Arthur Kirkland  
4. Russia: Ivan Braginski  
5. China: Wang Yao  
6. Belgium:  
7. Canada: Matthew Williams  
8. Austria: Roderich Edelstein

He grinned a little.

"Austria?" he said to himself. "He's a nice guy. But doesn't he ALWAYS lose?" He thought on it for a moment more before turning to Mr. Kumajiro. "Hey, I'm going to, um, go put on some clothes really quick, don't move, okay?" Again, he did nothing. Canada sighed and got up, a towel around him as though he was six, and he shuffled to the locker rooms.

Meanwhile, Hungary was going insane.

"Austria!" she groaned in frustration. "How could you!"

"How could I vhat, Hungary?" he said flatly, drying his hair with a towel.

"How could you lose!" she went on, sounding truly disappointed. But Austria just shrugged.

"Zis sporting sing just isn't my forte, darling," he replied calmly, moving onto his shoulders. Hungary didn't answer for a moment because she was watching him in sort of a trance. "Hungary. Please pay attention ven I am talking to you," he sighed irritably. She snapped out of it and blushed a bit, nodding.

"Y-Yes, I'm sorry Austria," she apologized. "I know you don't do much physical activity. I shouldn't have made you come to participate just because I am..."

"Damn straight."

A totally caught off guard Hungary watched him stride into the locker room like he was headed to a piano recital. She sighed and looked over at the giant screen.

"Why does he look and move so formally, but talk like he is a sexist douche nozzle?" she mumbled to herself as she moved her eyes to England, France, and America, two of which were kissing.

"Haha! Dude, rock on, you actually did it!" America cackled, practically on the ground in laughter. But Britain didn't answer him, which was a little confusing. So he straightened back out and looks to the two blondes. Who were still kissing. Just as he was about to question them, they broke it off.

"Ohonhon~ Britain, I 'ad no idea that you actually liked moi~!" France purred, flashing a devilishly handsome smile at the shorter man. Britain scoffed and looked to the side, averting his gaze from France's.

"Tch, don't flatter yourself, frog, I don't," he scoffed quietly, a noticeable blush on his cheeks. America laughed again and decided it was best to just walk away after France wouldn't quit taunting him. He knew what came next.

"Man, it was just a dare, who would have thought?" he chuckled to himself. He heard a dark quiet kol-ing and chills went up his spine as a large hand touched his shoulder from behind.

"So, no kiss from Amerika today, da?" he chuckled, looking over at France and England as they battled it out in words. America chuckled nervously.

"No, dude. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever," he assured him, looking to the Russian who already donned his coat and scarf again. He nodded once.

"We shall see," he said quietly, not looking at him. "You will all become one someday..." America didn't even dare say anything to that, and he stood there in fear of the much larger man for a moment more. Then he looked down at him and smiled sweetly.

"I go for vodka later today. Bring friends, da?" he offered with a cheery little glint in his eyes. America eyed him warily for a moment, but nodded. The guy just wanted company, after all.

"Yeah, bro, sure thing," he said with a little smile and a nod. 'Thank god,' he thought, 'I didn't say something wrong.' Russia grinned and nodded before saying goodbye and walking in China's direction to talk with him.

China didn't really have much to say, though.

"Hallo, Russia," he said politely as he pulled his hair back into a ponytail. "Congrats on beating me."

"Thank you, China," he said cheerily with his cute little smile. "And congrats to you for not being last, da?"

"Yes," China said with a nod. "I small guy, no way I could beat those top guys," he chuckled. "But I beat Austria and Belgium and Canada, whoever dat is." Russia nodded and looked over at the scoreboards again.

"This Australia," he said slowly. "I don't know him. Is he pipe-worthy?" he said darkly. China shrugged a little, not fazed.

"I have no idea," he replied, and it was obvious that the conversation was over.


	2. Very short: Hungary disqualified?

My brother just told me that Italy beat America in beach volleyball.

He also said that Hungary was disqualified from swimming for being too slow.

Observe:

* * *

"Disqualified?!" she screeched, flailing her arms as two burly men dragged her away from the huge pool. "I can't be disqualified!"

"But you are," one of the guards gruffed. "You were too slow."

"TOO SLOW?!" she yelled, outraged. "TOO SLOW! I'LL SHOW YOU DOUCHE NOZZLES 'TOO SLOW'! DIDN'T YOU VATCH AUSTRIA THE OTHER DAY!?" Austria watched her being dragged away from his place leaning against the wall.

"Shouldn't you do something?" Switzerland asked dully curious from his place beside Austria.

"No," the aristocrat said, amusement coloring his response. Switzerland mumbled something about how horrible he was before turning and walking away, leaving Austria there to smirk at his ex-wife.

FIN.


	3. HetaOni aftermath: Germany and Prussia

This is just a short little thing that I uploaded in September after watching HetaOni for three straight days and then talking about it with Feliciano.

Also, this is based on the results of the second time loop, where Italy is the one to die, and everyone eventually escapes.

The day of the funeral had been a depressing one.

Everyone was crying and wearing head to toe black.

All except for Germany.

Germany had not cried, nor had he donned black clothing. He wore his military uniform—pressed and cleaned and green. He had been very out of place. To add to the list, he seemed too quiet, too stiff, and too stand-offish, even for a war man like him.

As his brother, Prussia had noticed this instantly. He had made a note of it, but had not put a pin in it, and therefore had forgotten about it altogether.

Until the following night.

•••

Prussia slithered upstairs silently, looking around for any sign of being spotted. He wanted food. West hated when he took food. But West was asleep. So all he had to do was be sneaky. He felt the cool tile under his feet and chuckled as he reveled in the glory of reaching the kitchen. He tiptoed to the fridge and put a hand on the handle.

"Wurst-y, come to the awesome Prussia!" he whispered as he opened the refrigerator to reveal the sausages. He flashed the grin of a shark and gave a little 'kesese' before reaching in and taking the container. He closed the cool metal doors and was about to slink back down the hall while telling himself in his head how awesome he was, but he paused.

What was that sound?

It sounded like...sniffling?

Prussia blinked a few times there in the darkness, trying to adjust his eyesight to the dark. No luck. His eyes were wide as he took a frantic paranoid look around. Ever since that Oni incident...

He shivered at the thought, and was instantly reminded of Italy.

"Italy..." he breathed, looking down at his feet. "You should not have gone, mein fruend..."

He sighed and was about to leave, but he heard it again. That soft, faint sniffling. It was more of an erratic pattern now. He walked out of the kitchen, and realized that it was getting progressively brighter. He peeked around the corner that began the hallway, and he realized that there was light coming from Germany's room.

The door was open about halfway. And from where he stood at the end of the hall, he could see directly into the room. He didn't want to spy on his brother, but at the same time, he did. He set the container of wurst on the table beside him and looked into the room.

Germany was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had his head in his hands, his fingers gripping at his gell-free hair, and he was shaking. What Prussia noticed, though, was that the framed picture of Italy that usually sat on the bedside table was beside him on the bed.

"West...?" he whispered to himself, and he found himself slinking closer, abandoning his wurst. Then he was outside his brother's door. And he heard it. The noise from before. It was Germany.

"West?" he asked quietly, standing in the doorframe and watching him with worry.

"Wh-What is it," he choked, his voice very broken. He was obviously holding something back as he moved his hands away from his eyes, but still gripping his head. His sharp blue eye were shining, but not with happiness. Prussia slipped in and took a seat beside his brother, lightly putting an arm around his shoulders.

"West, are you okay? You seemed very bothered at the funeral..." he trailed off, realizing that the sniffling was still going on. He tried to ignore it. "How are you holding up? I know this must have struck you the hardest..."

He didn't expect the low restricted cry that emitted from Germany's lips instead o words. His red eyes widened as he watched a tear slip down his brother's cheek. Mein Gott.

And then before he could barely open his mouth, Germany let out a sob and hugged Prussia around the waist.

"W-We, West..." He was stiff straight, not sure what to do with his brother. At first, he wondered if Germany was faking it. But he sobbed again, and he was hugged tighter.

"P-Prussia," he choked through a sob, crying into the albino's shoulder. "I-Ita, Italy...he-he's dead...! He's dead, Prussia, I-I couldn't save him—"

"Shhhh," he shushed him softly, lightly stroking his brother's hair. "Calm down, bruder, it's alright, there was nothing you could do..."

"He s-sacrificed himself f-for the s-second time for us! H-He, he died for us, Prussia; he died for me...Why? Why did he have to die?" he cried, his whole body shaking with the power of each sob. In all of their years, Prussia had never seen his brother cry. Never. Until now.

"I know, West, I know," he said quietly, holding him close, though it was a bit awkward because Germany was bigger than he. "I didn't want him to die, either..."

Germany didn't even have a response. He just cried on Prussia's shoulder. And Prussia let him. He even felt tears coming to his own eyes. He didn't notice that Germany's movements were slowing as he reflected on the past few days worth of that mansion.

Italy...

When he looked back to Germany, he was met with another surprise;

Germany had cried himself to sleep.

Just that sent a tear down his face, and he hugged his sleeping brother.

"It's alright, West," he whispered, still stroking his hair, "it's alright..."

•••

The following morning, Germany didn't say a word to anyone.

And neither did Prussia.


	4. Novel excerpt: Bam! Pink!

Here's an excerpt from a book my friend and I were writing called Madness, Witchcraft, and Circles. It was going to be a Hetalia story in the Harry Potter world. I may pick it back up, but right now I doubt it. Enjoy!

* * *

Let's just say Felicks was abusing his power a bit.  
"Bam! Pink!"  
"Bam! Pink!"  
"Bam! Pink!"  
Everywhere he went, he enthusiastically flicked his wand at some random object—sometimes a cauldron, sometimes a painting on the wall, sometimes a student—and turned it (or them) pink. It wasn't even a tolerable shade like a light rose; it was bright hot pink. Thankfully, the color faded in a matter of hours. Usually.  
On one occasion in particular, he even turned Toris that ghastly shade of pink.  
"Bam! Pin—oh no..."  
Pink.  
The fellow professor was head to toe pink. Every inch of the poor man was pink. Felicks's eyes went wide.  
"Um...Hey, Liet!" he chuckled nervously, casting a sideways glance at the mirror that he had turned pink a minute ago and scratching the back of his head with his wand. "Wazzup?"  
Toris stood rigidly still, not saying anything at first. "Felicks," he said slowly, bring his arms to his sides from where they had been slightly raised in surprise, "you just turned me pink, didn't you."  
The blonde laughed a little, placing a hand on his hip and tucking his hair behind his ear. "_Waaat?_ Pshhh, _no_, I would _totally_ never do that on purpose!" he said smoothly, but what he added to the end of his words almost instantaneously cut the effect. When he realized that he wasn't convincing the brunette, he sighed. "Yah, I totally just turned you pink."  
Toris sighed. "Felicks, why are you going around making things pink anyway?" he asked, lifting a pink hand and staring at it in wonder. Felicks instantly had his answer.  
"To make things more fabulous!"  
"Of course," Toris sighed to himself, now pinching the bridge of his nose.  
Felicks flushed a bit and chuckled again. "E-Eh, like, sorry about that..." he apologized guiltily. Toris sighed and dusted off his now pink jacket.  
"That's alright," he forgave quietly, trying not to freak out. "Just, _please_ tell me that you have a way to get rid of this." The blonde stayed silent. Toris's eyes widened in horror. "_Felicks!_"  
"_Wat!_ It was so totally an accident!" Felicks cried in defense, putting his hands in the air. Toris couldn't really stay calm anymore.  
"What am I going to do?! The students come to class in ten minutes!" he cried. Felicks thought hard, sort of panicking.  
"I, um...Well, I could, like, ask Francis if he has, like, a de-pink-ifier potion or something," he offered with a small shrug.  
Toris nodded quickly. "Y-Yes! That sounds good! Come on, l-let's go, and quickly!" With that he dashed down the hall, almost tripping in the process.  
Felicks stared after him for a moment, blinking once. Then, after realizing that he was supposed to follow, he ran after him. Surely Francis had something for them. He _had_ to have something.


	5. My first Spamano fic

Okay, some of the translations DON'T WORK with Google translate, so use the one at . Danke!

* * *

"Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT," Lovino snapped angrily, missing the dartboard hanging on the adjacent wall for the fourth time in a row. "***DAMN IT!"  
Antonio poked his head around the corner from the kitchen, green eyes wide and curious.  
"Lovino? Are you okay in there? Do I have to fix the wall again?" he asked, looking out at the tan, slim, and definitely beautiful Italian that stood half-shirtless in his living room. Said Italian instantly looked over at the Spaniard, agitation plastered all over his handsome face.  
"Tch, what the hell do you think I am, a bitch?" he retorted sharply, his open button-down black shirt getting caught in a cross breeze from the open window and fluttering out behind him. "Well, I'm not, so go back to your stupid cooking and let me beat this damned game."  
Antonio sighed a little, and despite the harsh words, he found himself grinning fondly at Lovino. He was just so perfect. Why couldn't the Italian see that for himself? He didn't notice that he was staring until he heard Lovino's voice again.  
"Oi, tomato-bastard! I'mma talking to you! Damn it, why are you fauking staring at me?" the Italian snapped harshly, a hand on his hip and his sharp hazel eyes peering in what could be assumed to be disgust.  
Antonio blinked and then felt his smile get a little bigger. "Lo siento, Lovino. You are just so bonito~" he replied smoothly, ready for the reaction that he knew would come.  
And come it did. Lovino's eyes widened in a way similar to how an angered and taunted bull's do when they've just seen the red, and—speaking of red, that was now the color of his cheeks.  
"O-Oi, shut up, bastard! Don't call me cute! It doesn't work like that!" he snapped, crossing his arms over his bare chest and turning to look the other direction agitatedly. Antonio smiled. Bingo. He slunk out of the kitchen, still wearing his pink "Besar el Cocinero" apron, and went over to Lovino, wrapping his arms around his tsundere boyfriend's waist.  
"Ahh, Lovino, why do you hurt me so~?" he asked airily, looking up at the ceiling with a big smile still on his face. Lovino jumped and almost made a hissing sound when Antonio touched him; he must not have heard him approach.  
He unsuccessfully tried to twist out of the Spaniard's grasp, face contorted in spiteful frustration. "D-Damn it, let go of me, bastard," he snapped, eyes squeezed shut and face bright red as he flailed around.  
Antonio couldn't help but laugh out loud. "Fusososo~! Lovino, you are so silly!" he chuckled, only hugging the Italian closer. "Trying to pretend that you do not care about me~" Lovino's eyes shot open and he paused in his twisting, which had only gotten him so far; the two of them were now in a chest to chest embrace.  
"I-I—sh-shut up, idiota! I never said that I loved you!" he hissed.  
Antonio smiled. "Lovino, I never said you loved me; I said that you cared about me~" he pointed out in a sing-song tone.  
Lovino spat. "Fauk! Sh-Shit—shut up! Accidenti si, lo spagnolo, zitto! Non essere un cazzo! Ti odio—"  
Antonio cut him off with a kiss. It definitely took Lovino by surprise, because he didn't kiss back right away.  
The Spaniard pulled back, a grin stretching his lips. "I love you too, Lovino," he purred happily, kissing the Italian again. Lovino didn't even try to fight him now, and that's how Antonio knew that he had won.  
"Yah, whatever," Lovino mumbled when he pulled back, leaning into his touch. Antonio grinned and hugged him again, looking out the window at the just-setting sun.  
'How beautiful...' he thought to himself, losing himself in the waves of color. He didn't expect Lovino to jab him in the side.  
"A-Ah! Lovi, what the—" he started, wincing in pain, but he didn't finish, because Lovino slipped out of his hold and dashed down the hallway, calling "Odio ancora tu, bastard!" before the slamming of a door was heard. Antonio laughed to himself as he walked slowly back to the kitchen.  
"Ah, my little Lovino-tomato," he sighed happily, picking up a wooden spoon, "come io lo amo così..."


	6. Chorea

Antonio had to admit that Lovino had been acting differently. Sure, the Italian acted differently to begin with, especially around Antonio, but it had gotten to the point where he became worried for him. He was despondent at times, abnormally fidgety, and seemed to refuse eye contact at all times. What Antonio wanted to figure out was why.  
The Spaniard had invited Lovino over for lunch earlier on in the morning, and after a bit of prodding, the Italian had agreed. But now, as the clock chimed 1:00, Antonio questioned if he would pull through for him.  
"Ay, Lovino... ¿Dónde estás?" he muttered to himself, restricting the urge to pace as he stood out on the veranda. Just as he was ready to give up, he heard a beautifully familiar voice from the other side of the railing.  
"Oi, tomato-bastard, I'm here."  
Antonio turned his head, grassy eyes sparking curiously, and as soon as he caught sight of the fiery Italian he dashed to him, hugging him despite the railing separating them.  
"¡ Lovino! ¡ Por fin! Where have you been!" he cried happily, ignoring the string of Italian cursing that flowed from Lovino's lips.  
"D-Damn it, bastard, I got here as fast as I could! Don't rush me just to see your stupid ass!" he spat defiantly, managing to push the Spaniard away. Antonio looked his beautiful Italian over, a big grin on his face. He was as perfect as always. Except...the positioning of his feet looked off, like it would hurt to stand like that. He decided that it probably wasn't important and he held out his hand for Lovino, offering to help him over the railing. But, of course, the Italian promptly ignored it and jumped over without even a stumble...  
...Until he tried to land. Antonio's eyes widened a little as he watched Lovino's foot give out under him and he instantly caught the smaller man before he could fall to the brown-stained concrete.  
"Lovino, are you okay?" he asked worriedly, looking down at the Italian in his arms. Oddly enough, Lovino seemed to be more upset with himself for clearing the railing than he was Antonio for touching him.  
"Dannazione, perché io sono così stupido? Saltando un cazzo rail? Davvero Lovino?" he muttered sharply to himself, checking his leg for injuries.  
"Lovino, I asked if you were okay," Antonio repeated, even more seriously now. As he waited for an answer, he too scanned the Italian for injuries, and he noticed what looked like a bruise on his wrist. He wanted to comment on it, but Lovino had his reply ready now.  
"Ach, damn it. S-Si, I'm fine, Spagnolo," he hissed, "just put me on my feet again." Antonio considered making him get up on his own so that he could observe how his body adapted to this injury, but decided he would do as Lovino had asked.  
He pushed him carefully upright, making sure he could stand properly before he took his hands off of him.  
"Thanks, I guess," Lovino muttered bitterly, rubbing at his injured wrist. Antonio caught the action. And now he would ask.  
"Ay, Lovino, where did you get that?" he asked curiously, head tilting to gesture at his wrist. Lovino paused. Antonio didn't like that pause.  
"Ach, this thing? My stupid ass banged it on the table by the bed last night," he said bitterly, and Antonio could almost hear the pain lacing the undersides of his words. Almost. He unconsciously reached down to hold his hand, and at the unexpected touch, Lovino jumped a little. Apparently he hadn't even noticed that Antonio was standing right behind him still.  
"Oi, watch where you're touching, basta—"  
"—Lovi, this is bad," Antonio interrupted him, and the Italian's eyes widened a little.  
"E-Eh?" he queried, looking over his shoulder as far as possible to look at Antonio, who was busy lightly massaging Lovino's palm. "No way, it was just a little thing."  
Antonio shook his head, moving lower down on his palm. He could just barely sense the Italian's pulse now; it was extremely quick. Just as he reached the nasty swollen purple section of his wrist, Lovino took his hand back instantly, twirling around to face Antonio and taking a few ragged steps back.  
"Oi! Antonio! Cosa diavolo pensi stai facendo? Solo perché non è male non significa che non è così cazzo fa male!" he barked, his eyes peered in anger and a snarl stretching his lips and showing his teeth. Antonio's eyes went wide after he roughly translated all of that rapid-fire Italian into Spanish.  
"¡ L-Lovino, calma!" he stammered. "I wasn't trying to hurt you! I just want to know what's wrong!"  
"You wanna know what's wrong, bastard?" Lovino barked, and Antonio was surprised to see tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "What'a wrong is that it was an accident!"  
Cue the Spaniard's confusion.  
"¿ Que? What do you mean, Lovi?" he asked hesitantly, taking an experimental step forward. The other brunette stayed put. "Will you tell me? Estoy preocupado por ti, mi amor."  
Lovino said nothing for a moment, holding his wrist against his chest with his other hand, actually locking onto Antonio's eyes. But before Antonio could try to scan them for hints, Lovino clicked his tongue and looked out at the yard, back to avoiding eye contact.  
"You remember when I was a stupid kid how you made me do that dumb dance?" he asked surprisingly softly, though his tone was still on edge. "The one I had to do when you found out about that...that 'thing' that was wrong with me?"  
Antonio thought for a moment. Lovino, no matter how adorable, was not a good conversationalist, and he typically under-described things that needed lots of specification for someone as clueless as Antonio.  
"Eh...was it the Terantela?" he asked for confirmation. Lovino nodded, but didn't add any other sort of hint. Antonio sighed and tried to remember what occasion he was referring to. But before he could lock in on an answer, he heard a thump and then quite a bit of cursing. Startled, he looked up quickly to Lovino to see that he was currently busy imitating a sailor.  
"Cazzo! Inferno cazzo! Dio dannazione, figlio di una cagna, che fa male! Cazzo! Ferroviario stupido! Caz—"  
"Lovi, what happened?" he asked curiously but worriedly. "I didn't even see anything!"  
"The stupid ass railing attacked me!" Lovino snapped, a small tear now tracing down his cheek as he held his already bruised up wrist to his chest. Antonio blinked.  
"Ehhh? Lovino, you say the railing attacked you? You know that's not possible?" he questioned, not getting what he meant at all. Lovino sat on the floor now, shaking and slightly curling inward toward his wrist.  
"D-Damn it, Spagnolo, j-just help me!" he managed to spit out, and as soon as Antonio heard the pain in his tone he dashed to his side and pulled him into a hug.  
"Lovi, I'm sorry! I don't know what to do because you won't tell me!" he insisted. Apparently Lovino's temper was gone now.  
"Damn it Antonio! Chorea! It's that goddamned Chorea again! It came back!" he yelled, though the effect of it was lost with the sob that followed.  
Antonio almost stopped breathing. "...It did?"  
"YES, GODDAMNIT!" Lovino barked. "YES IT DID AND IT WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!" Antonio was speechless. Could you even get Chorea twice? He certainly didn't know. Even as Lovino said this, Antonio felt a muscle in the Italian's arm jolt and he ended up throwing an elbow out. Antonio frowned and pulled Lovino closer, lightly kissing his forehead.  
"It's okay, Lovi, we can fix this," he said quietly, running his fingers through the Italian's dark auburn hair. But said Italian didn't seem so sure.  
"Oh yeah? You said that last time! And it came back!" he yelled. Antonio cursed inwardly. He just needed Lovino to trust him, that was all. He could fix this, damn it, and he would, too.  
But how?

* * *

Okay, okay, so I know this one isn't my best, but I kinda just wanted the idea down. Also, I expected this to be shorter, and not a cliffhanger... (and this probably won't have a second part... _" *shot*)...but it just needed to end. Oh well. Comment if you liked it, I guess. Ttyl.


	7. Awkward Bonding

"Hey, Matt, you got any food ready yet?" called a voice from the basement. Meanwhile a cute blonde rummaged around in the kitchen, purplish-blue eyes sparking with a start as he pushed his round glasses up his nose.  
"N-Not yet, Gilbert!" he called down the stairs in a fairly quiet tone, though he knew that the albino man living below him could hear him. "I-I'm trying to find those potatoes I bought yesterday, do you know where they are?"  
There was a pause before he received a vague reply. "Ahh, yah, about those..." Gilbert trailed off and Matthew sighed, hearing the guilt in his tone.  
"That's okay," he forgave easily, being a very timid person by nature, "don't worry about it. B-But that means we can't have any with dinner..." The blonde could faintly hear sounds of gunshot and Russian cursing flitting through the speakers downstairs, and he tried to ignore the string of English profanity that followed shortly afterward. For a little bit, there wasn't a reply, and Matthew wondered if he had heard him after all.  
"G-Gilbert?" he called, looking doubtfully down the stairs.  
"Hah?" came the reply.  
"I-I said that we couldn't have any potatoes tonight."  
Another pause. "Vell zhat sucks..." Matthew stared down the stairs for a moment, wondering if he would say anything else. He didn't. The blonde sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose again.  
"Okay then..." he said softly to himself, going back to the stove top and turning over the sausage. Breakfast for dinner was always his favorite, and thankfully Gilbert liked it, too. 'Speaking of Gilbert...' he thought to himself, briefly checking the biscuits in the oven, 'how did he even come to notice me?'  
This was a good question. Of all of his acquaintances, the only ones that ever noticed him were his papa Francis, occasionally his brother Alfred or his "mother" Arthur, Ivan, and Gilbert. He was glad that even those few people knew he existed, but he had to wonder why it was possible. If his own family members, those like Alfred and Arthur, forgot him at times, then how did a total outsider with no relation to him at all notice him?  
It was a question he had been asking himself for about two months now, the current duration of Gilbert's inhabitance of his basement. He just couldn't understand it. Apparently his younger brother Ludwig kicked him out of their house because he was annoying and took up too much space, but what had clicked in the albino's head that said "hey, let's go to Matthew's place"?  
Matthew, being so caught up in his thoughts, hadn't noticed the aforementioned albino come up the stairs, and was caught by surprise when he heard his voice.  
"Hey, you done now?"  
Matthew jumped a bit and turned to look at him with a startled look on his face, ahoge twitching slightly. Sure enough, maybe three feet to the right of him stood Gilbert in all his albino glory donning a simple white t-shirt and what looked to be boxers with the Prussian flag printed on them.  
"I-I, well, almost," he stammered, feeling a slight flush hit his cheeks for a brief moment before he quickly turned back to the sausages, which were now ready. Gilbert just nodded, watching in temporary silence as Matthew plated the sausages and then was promptly startled by the ringing of the oven timer. He could just picture the albino's crooked grin as he recovered from his scare and opened the oven and retrieved the biscuits.  
As he took off his oven mitts and out them back in the appropriate drawer, he decided that the awkward silence between the two should be broken.  
"S-So, um, Gilbert," he started shyly, and he briefly looked up at the Prussian to see his eyes sparked in curiosity and his head ever so slightly tilted, "I-I've never seen you come upstairs before." He looked at him timidly, and Gilbert smirked and chuckled a little.  
"Yah, I don't," he chuckled, "but you're making food, und I vant some."  
Matthew was still confused. "B-But, I always bring it downstairs for you..." he said quietly, his head tilted and brow slightly furrowed in adorable confusion. Gilbert's smile stretched a little wider, and his eyes seemed to spark with amusement, only making Matthew more embarrassed.  
"Zhe vay you put it, it's like you don't vant me up here!" he teased, winking playfully. Matthew's eyes widened, and he felt that familiar heat hit his cheeks as he quickly shook his head.  
"O-Oh—! N-No! That's not what I mean!" he stammered quickly, panicking. Did he just screw things up with Gilbert in a matter of seconds? 'Maple, I need better people skills,' he critiqued inwardly, still freaking out on the outside. Gilbert, however, was watching him with bright, amused eyes and a pearly crooked grin.  
"Hey, don't vorry about it," he chuckled quietly, "I vas only kidding; no need to start panicking on me."  
Matthew flushed even harder. "Y-Yes, I understand, I-I'm sorry," he said very quietly, unable to look at the other male. 'Maple, maple, maple!' he cursed in his mind. 'Get a grip! Show some dignity!'  
"Ah, veren't you preparing supper?"  
Matthew's eyes shot up instantaneously to the Prussian's, and as they locked for the first time that day, maybe even that week, he found himself admiring them. They were just...captivating. But he couldn't spend all day staring into the older man's eyes, not at all.  
"U-Um, yes, I was," he chuckled nervously, finding it impossible to pull his gaze away from Gilbert's despite wanting and needing to do other things. Now that he was paying so much attention to his face, Matthew could easily see the shift of the swirl in his eyes that indicated a mood change. 'How weird...' he thought to himself, oblivious to his staring and the awkward silence that briefly enveloped them.  
"Hah, cute," Gilbert commented rather naturally, and for a moment, Matthew actually wondered if he was observing his own eyes as well. After realizing what the older male had said, though, his eyes widened quite a bit and he felt his face and neck get hot.  
"I-I, what?" he squeaked, too nervous to even fix his glasses, which were slipping down his nose. Gilbert chuckled and shifted positions to lean against the counter, resting his elbow and forearm on it.  
"I said you vere cute," he elaborated slightly, seeming incredibly calm about it. Matthew however, who had been partially hiding feelings for this man since he had asked to stay in the basement two months ago, was really impacted by such a calm, simple statement.  
"I-I, I...th-thank you...?" he tried, attempting to come up with a proper response as he stared at the albino.  
Gilbert gave that crooked little grin and winked again. "You're velcome," he replied quietly, just gazing at the blonde for a moment. Just as Matthew was going to try to pull himself out of what had to be a daydream, Gilbert took a step to the right and put am arm around the blonde's shoulders. "Now," he started with an eager little spark in his eyes, "how about ve eat, und zhen maybe I could teach you how to play Call of Duty?"  
Matthew was stunned into a shaky silence just by his touch, which was warm despite the house being an icebox, but he managed to nod, smiling faintly and a little awkwardly.  
"Th-That would be fun," he replied softly with a little grin. Gilbert smiled at him.  
"Gut (Good). Now, we go, jah?" he questioned, gesturing with an inclination of his head to the now plated food. Matthew nodded quickly and ducked under his arm to take up both of their plates.  
"Yes, now we go," Matthew answered with a confirmative nod, a little giggle coloring his tone.  
Gilbert smiled. "Cool~"  
With that the odd duo made their way down the stairs to the basement, making small talk as they ate and then taking turns yelling—or in Matthew's case talking in a fairly normal decibel of volume—at the noobs that they pwned in Call of Duty.  
'I can get used to this,' Matthew thought to himself, grinning as he watched Gilbert celebrate the death of an enemy via his "claymore"—whatever that was—with a ridiculous little dance and song. Maybe representing Canada wouldn't be so bad anymore.

* * *

ASDFGHJKL, I DIED OF CUTENESS~  
So yeah, here you get to see a fairly mellow Prussia, as rare as that may be, and an adorable fluffy little Canadia in a random little scene~

GAH, WHY IS THIS SO FLUFFY LIKE AHMAHGAWDDDDDD.  
*shot*  
Anyway, hope you liked! ^^


	8. Spirit Day comes hard this year

Have some beautimously heartbreaking FranCan.

Just like with my other stories, you have to use the translator at (aka , and there's a tab that says translator) because that's what I used. Hope you like this! I wrote it for Spirit Day on DeviantART; the day where we're aware of gay rights and all of that good stuff.

* * *

As the front door closed quietly, Francis' eyes sparked from his position in the kitchen; that was his signal to skip to the main room and dote over his son.  
"Oh Maaattheeww~!" he called, taking the first few steps into the dining room to look toward the front door. But Matthew wasn't there. "Hm...He must have gone to 'is room already," he reasoned with himself, making his way to the teen's bedroom. "Matthew?" he called again, just approaching the door. "You are 'ome, aren't you?"  
A quiet yet frantic reply came from the other side of the door. "Y-Yes, papa, I-I am."  
Francis smiled. "Bon! I 'ave almost finished with dinner, but I wanted to come and see mon beau garçon~" There was another worrying pause.  
"I-I, dad, could we maybe talk a little bit later?" Matthew asked softly and quickly, though his voice sounded farther away now. Francis frowned.  
"Why? What is the problem?" he asked, brow furrowing in concern. When there wasn't an immediate response, he put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. It opened. He heard Matthew's voice coming now from the attached bathroom.  
"I, dad, it's nothing, just hold on, okay?" he insisted, and of course Francis' mind went straight to the gutter. No matter how tempting it was to start teasing him, he managed to keep his mouth shut. After a few moments, Francis was done waiting, his parental worry now washing away any dirty thoughts he may have had previously.  
"Matthew, I'm worried for you; are you okay?" he asked through the door, putting a hand on it and looking at it with sad eyes; his son never hid anything from him, why was this any different?  
"I-I'm fine, papa, don't worry about me, okay?" came his sweet little voice. "Wh-Why don't you go and finish up dinner, eh?" Francis was silent for a moment, picking apart his son's tone and scanning his words for any hints at something bad. His searches came up fruitless, and he sighed and took his hand away from the door.  
"Okay, son," he replied quietly, not liking this at all. "Be down in fifteen minutes, okay?"  
"Okay, I can do that...~" came the soft reply. Francis sighed and forced himself to turn and walk away from the door, and then out of his room entirely. It just irked him that his son didn't come to talk to him like he did every other day; it was in their routine. So why had he skipped it? What was so urgent?  
These questioned bugged the Frenchman throughout the entirety of the fifteen minutes he had allowed Matthew to stay secluded. Just as he set the last dish on the table, he looked to the stairs to see Matthew at the bottom. His eyes lit up and he couldn't help but smile.  
"Ah~ Matthew, à réfléchir que j'avais peur pour toi; vous êtes aussi belle que jamais~!" he said warmly, the French words just coming more naturally to him than the English. Matthew nodded a little and gave a characteristically weak smile, starting to walk to the dining room table.  
"Je t'aime aussi, papa," he said softly, tugging at one of the strings on his red hoodie, a nervous habit. Francis didn't catch it, though, and stood to hug his son.  
"Oui, I do love you so much~" he said lovingly, hugging him close. He felt Matthew cringe, though, and some of his worry returned, though he didn't allow it any visibility. "Now, son," he started after pulling away and sitting down again, "'elp yourself and tell me, 'ow was school today?"  
Matthew cringed as he sat across from the other blonde at the end of the table. "I-It was okay," he replied quietly, keeping his eyes down. Francis was quiet, looking at his son somewhat sternly.  
"Are you sure? You seem to be bothered, and I know I did not cause it," he said both curiously and worriedly, addressing the earlier pink elephant. Matthew, somewhat shaking, nodded. And when he nodded, a considerable part of his right cheek did not reflect the light from the chandelier like the rest did. Francis knew make up when he saw it, and he instantly knew what had kept him hidden for so long.  
"Mon dieu, son," he gasped quietly, subconsciously getting to his feet and reaching out to thumb the spot. Just as he had thought, a fine powdery residue was left on his finger, and a slight tinge of what looked to be purple was revealed under a few more layers of the make-up.

_(A.N: GOD, THIS MAKES ME SO SAD I WANNA DIE FOR WRITING IT.)_

Matthew let out a little squeak, and he instantaneously hid his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, papa, I'm sorry!" he cries softly. Francis' eyes widened again, and his paternal instincts kicked in as he went around the table quickly and pulled him into a protective hug.  
"Non, non, non! Ne serez pas déçu! Je refuse de croire que c'était votre faute!" he said quickly, not at all letting go. His poor little son curled into his chest and let out a little sob.  
"I-I didn't do anything! It was just those guys f-from school again! I-I probably deserve it!" he insisted, but Francis wouldn't have it.  
"Non, son, it doesn't work like that," he said sharply, holding him as close as he could without restricting any breathing, or in this case sobbing. "Someone so innocent like you does not deserve such cruel treatment! Who are these boys? I'll have them shipped away forever!"  
"N-No! Please don't..!" he cried instantly, leaving a seething blonde Frenchman utterly confused. "I-I don't want t-to inconvenience other people..!" Francis sighed and kissed his son's forehead, almost feeling responsible for this whole thing. How could he let this happen?  
"Son...always so kind, so forgiving," he murmured, kissing him again. " 'Ow I wish everyone in this world were like you..." Matthew didn't reply, and Francis didn't make him...  
...Until he went back over Matthew's words. 'It was just those guys from school again!' He nearly shot up out of his seat. How dare they!  
"Son! You say this 'as 'appened before!" he exclaimed, incredulous.  
Matthew barely nodded. "Y-Yes, sir..." Francis was appalled. How could anyone hold any grudge against the most innocent, sweet, out-of-the-way kid in the entirety of the world!?  
"Matthew, mon amour, 'ow could anyone even try to despise someone like you?" he murmured, lightly stroking his son's hair. Matthew barely shifted, and Francis had a grave pit at the bottom of his stomach; he nearly expected what came next.  
"You know why...because I'm not like them..."  
Francis wanted to cry and curse the world at the same time. Why did it have to be this cruel?  
"Oui, I know..." he said softly, bringing him a bit closer once again, "I know..."  
And Francis felt fully responsible. There had been no doubt in his mind that having a bisexual father would change Matthew's outlook on things. All he could do was pray to the heavens that his son didn't get hurt like he once had.  
But look what happened now. The heavens were even out to get them. Francis sighed and finally pulled away, allowing Matthew some space; although, it appeared as though he didn't want any.  
"Are you 'urt anywhere else? That can't be the only bruise." Matthew wiped at his face, succeeding in both ridding himself of tears and removing more of the make up, and shook his head.  
"Nn, it's not," he replied hesitantly. Before Francis could flip out though, he continued. "B-But you know, I'm actually a pretty good fighter, and I think one of them went home with a broken nose..."  
Francis couldn't help but grin. That's his boy. " 'E better 'ave, or I would 'ave come to school tomorrow and given 'I'm one!" Matthew giggled at Francis's ferocity.  
"P-Papa, tomorrow's a Saturday," he laughed softly, closing his eyes in a cute grin. Francis chuckled and ruffled his son's hair.  
"Nevertheless," he said with a shrug, glad to see his poor battered up son in better spirits. His cheery grin dropped, however, when he realized that he needed to know the bullies' names. "Ah, Matthew, if you do not mind me asking, who were these people that 'urt you?" he asked carefully, making sure he didn't trigger anything.  
Matthew sighed and looked away, definitely troubled. "Well, there were a lot of them...I only heard two of their names, though...Mathias and, and..." he paused, shaking now.  
Francis's eyes widened and he hugged him again. "Non, it's okay, you don't 'ave to say i—"  
"—I-It was Alfred," Matthew interrupted quickly. "Alfred did it, Papa, just like when we were kids, except a lot harder..." Francis couldn't believe it. His own brother? He sighed and tried to let it go, but it just kept haunting him. How could he do this?  
"Son, tout ira bien," he assured, kissing his forehead for the third and final time. "I will deal with this Matthias kid and all of 'is little subordinates." He rose to his feet slowly, and Mattew looked up at him curiously. Francis looked down at him gravely. "As for Alfred..." he stopped and sighed, looking out the window, "I'll 'ave to call Arthur about it..."  
To be honest, he really didn't want to call his ex. Arthur didn't really like him, and Francis finally managed to except that almost fully. When they split apart, they also split the children, leaving Alfred to Arthur and Matthew to Francis. Both sides were happy with the choice, though Arthur's side much more than his own, and decided that they wouldn't try to restart their old relations no matter the stakes; it simply caused too much trouble. Now, though, Francis couldn't help but wonder which one was more trouble, dealing with a tsundere Britt or trying to keep his own son out of trouble with said tsundere Britt's son.  
Apparently, Matthew had spoken, but Francis was so busy thinking about his past relations that he hadn't heard him. He could still feel things, though, and he snapped out of his thoughts when Matthew poked his arm.  
"Papa? Are you okay?" he asked timidly. "You looked sad for a moment."  
Francis sighed and ran his fingers back through his hair. "Oui, Matthew, I'm fine. Just, the past..." He trailed off, almost feeling tears come to his eyes. He shoved them aside, though. Right now, he needed to help his son. "Come on, let's call them up."  
He took Matthew's hand and pulled him out of his chair, and then the two of them walked to the living room for the phone. If this wasn't a bad day, then there was no such thing...


	9. A different approach: PrusIta

Gutentaag, Deutschland here. As Preußen's brother, I know a lot of things that most do not. Like, for example, his pesky habit of crawling into bed with me at night. Well, as you can probably assume, I begrudgingly allow him to do so; it's nice just to see him finally be quiet. Well, anyhow, one a night such as this, I was out of town on business, and Italy just so happened to be there, unbeknownst to me. So, when Preußen came into and Italy was there in my absence, one could assume things were...odd. I've been asked to share this story with you, and now I will. Enjoy, if that's possible...

So. Preußen had dreamed another bad dream. It bothered him that they wouldn't go away, saying that they were "totally not awesome". Well, after he realized that he couldn't sleep well after waking up, he of course got up and went into my room. But I wasn't there. However, the lump in the blankets that was Italy made him think that I was. He slipped into the room silently, looked around, and the went over and lightly poked the lump. Said lump was totally dead to the world, so Preußen found it okay to slide under the covers with it.

But _it_ was _It_aly. He curled up under the covers and snuggled close to Italy for warmth, and Italy didn't complain at all; he was still dead to the world. Once he was maybe half asleep, though, Italy stirred.

"Mm, Germany, I thought you weren't coming home until tomorrow...?" he mumbled, turning over and snuggling into Preußen's chest. Now Preußen froze.

"A-Ah, Italy, it's—" he started, but Italy cut him off.

"—Prussia?" he said both curiously and happily. Preußen nodded, most likely freaking out on the inside.

"A-Ah, yeah, I sort of, um, sleep in here sometimes," he said quietly, definitely embarrassed, and Italy just smiled and hugged him.

"Ve~ That's okay~! I sleep in here with-a Germany too-a sometimes! So everything's-a good!" he said cheerfully. Preußen smiled a little and hugged Italy back.

"Awesome," he said quietly, probably fantasizing about poor Italy and things of that nature...Ah, I mean, uh...Never mind...

Anyway, the next morning, or afternoon rather, I came home, walked into the kitchen briefly to call down the stairs to where I assumed Preußen was slacking off. But I was proved wrong when I went into my room to see this: Preußen was sprawled out on the bed, the blankets twisted around him in odd ways, and one arm was cradled around a dead-asleep Italy who was laying pressed up against Preußen and using the albino's arm as a pillow, while he had one arm around his waist and the other curled inward toward his stomach. I sighed a little and dropped my duffle bag and briefcase, and then I just walked out of the room, letting them sleep...It was kind of cute anyway...

So there you go. I hope you all are happy...I'm going to go find Preußen and kill him now...


	10. Finland's Christmas Catastrophe

Mein brother wrote a story about Hetalia for a writing prompt at school! He brought it home and read it to me, and I was just like "ASDFGHJKL I LOVE YOU".  
So anyway, I asked him if I could put it on here, and he said yes!  
Now, here it is! My brother's story!

* * *

Finland remembered that it was only two days until Christmas so he had to get ready to take off. You see, for as long as time had existed, Finland has always been the role of Santa Claus. But this year was different. "There is more people on the noddy list than I ever remember!" he said aloud. "And not only that, but I don't even have enough coal to supply them with." So he decided to ask all the countries for more coal.  
First he went to America, which he decided after later it was a horrible idea. You see, at that time America and Tony, America's alien friend, were playing Slender. Whenever you go into America's house when he's playing Slender, he yells, "SLENDERMAN, DON'T EAT ME!" So Finland decided to not bother him.  
Fortunately, he still got loads of coal from 14 countries: Germany, Poland (he only likes pinks, purples, and blues), Austria, Prussia, Russia, Iceland, Japan, Greece, Romano (southern Italy), Italy, Sweden, Switzerland (that was lucky), Britain, and Lichtenstien. No one knows why he got some from Switzerland, or how he made it across that country without getting shot. For in Switzerland, nuetriality means stay out, or die. But all we know Finland got home safely. So remember, don't ever go into Switzerland.

* * *

TA-DA! THAT'S HIS STORY! I left everything exactly like it was on his paper, so things like "Lichtenstein" and "naughty" being spelled wrong are in there, as well as a bunch of other general grammar issues. Oh well! I still LOVED IT!


	11. Crack: Kiku the Japanese Hermit Crab

Once upon a time there was a little hermit crab named Kiku. He was Japanese, so naturally he was smaller than the other animals I shall include in this story. So Kiku the Japanese hermit crab was sitting in his shell watching po—SOAP OPERAS. Yes, he was watching soap operas when all of a sudden a mouse scrambled into his aquarium.  
So naturally Kiku had a spaz attack.  
"ASDFGHJKL—WH-WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY SANTUARY?!" he cried out, quickly flipping the channel to Jersey Shore.  
This mouse's name was Alfred.  
"D-Dude, there was this mongo-huge psycho cat flipping his shiz on me!" he wailed extremely obnoxiously. "I-I needed somewhere to get away from that guy's complaining!"  
Kiku the Japanese hermit crab, being a nice, caring midget, understood the mouse's woes, and allowed him to stay in his aquarium with him despite his rowdy, loud behavior.  
Meanwhile, the aforementioned mongo-huge psycho cat was pacing on the floor below the shelf where the aquarium sat, his orange tail flicking agitatedly.  
"Stupid Alfred," he grumbled to himself, "I only wanted him to taste some of my cooking…."  
This was Iggy-cat, a white and orange Scottish-fold cat.  
Meanwhile again, Alfred the hero mouse was flipping out on Kiku the Japanese hermit crab's couch.  
"ASDFGHJKL—DUDE, THIS MOVIE'S TOO SCARY, TURN IT OFF, MAN!"  
"….It's Veggie Tairs," he said quietly.  
"DUDE, THE GUY WAS LIKE, SINGING ABOUT CHOCOLATE BUNNIES! THAT'S SUPPOSED TO BE FUN! BUT IT'S NOT! IT'S SCARY! VEGGIE-WHATEVERS DON'T TALK, MAN!"  
Alfred the hero mouse was obviously an American creature.  
Alfred the hero mouse would never see his hamburgers the same way again.  
Yeah, this is the end.  
So…  
**END.**


	12. Guess Who's Back?

Didja know Matty's a secret underground DJ? *shot* Just a little drabble of mine.

* * *

Matthew looked at the clock. It read 2:30. Perfect. With a silent sweep of his coat rubbing against the doorway, he was out the front door, leaving his drunken elder brother Alfred passed out on the couch. He kept up a fairly quick pace as he ran through the streets and alleyways, turning quickly and silently.  
Then finally, as he passed through the first tunnel of the Underground, he saw the familiar pink neon lights that signaled to him his real home. He grinned as he paused in front of the doors.  
"It's go time, Matthew," he whispered to himself. And then he pushed open the doors.  
A rave. A full on rave was his first gig? Epic.  
Matthew slunk to the stage, signaled to the current disk jockey that his shift was up, and the other guy nodded with a big grin.  
"Awesome," he laughed enthusiastically as he pulled off the headphones and stepped down off the stage to shake Matthew's hand. "They call me Cuba! You our new guy?"  
Matthew nodded. "That's right," he said quietly. The big man grinned again and nodded, pulling out an ironically Cuban cigar.  
"Cool, cool," he replied smoothly, taking a puff and lighting the cigar. Matthew didn't comment on the smoking, but he did turn away from the smoke. Cuba, as they called him, let out a contented sigh and then tossed him a wad of cash. Matthew almost didn't even catch it. "There you are, man," he chuckled.  
Matthew looked up at him, partially confused. "B-But, what's this for?"  
"Your pay, man! You _do_ get paid for jockeying, ya know."  
Matthew grinned. No, he hadn't known. But he did now. As he said goodbye to Cuba, he jumped up on stage and screeched the currently playing disk to a halt. At first everyone looked confused. Matthew felt so powerful with all of the different controls and buttons and lights below him. He quickly located a favorite dance song of his and threw it on. And when it came to the part in the middle…  
"NOW GUESS WHO'S BACK WITH A BRAND NEW RAP THAT GOT EVERYBODY IN THE CLUB GOIN' MAD?" he called out threw the microphone. Everyone cheered, clapped, danced, sang along, nearly everything you could think of.  
And Matthew was having a blast. He stayed and jockeyed the entire night, totally losing track of time.  
By the time he dragged his own behind back to he and Alfed's house, the other male was awake and complaining. Matthew threw open the door with swagger, feeling content as his newly found confidence washed over him.  
"Yo! Mattie, where y'been, broseph?" called his brother from the kitchen, poking his blond head around the corner.  
"I was out on the town," he said coolly, striding into the living room and plopping down on the couch, not even caring to shut the door.  
"Psh, whatever floats your boat, dude," he laughed, unconvinced that his practically invisible brother had done anything "out on the town" in his entire life.  
Matthew rolled his eyes. _'He's just jealous,'_ he thought to himself with a grin, _'and he damn well should be.'_  
**END.**


	13. Visions of Horrors

Gilbert woke up that morning with a sharp cry, his whole body freezing cold with sweat. His younger brother, Ludwig, who was probably woken by his older brother's exclamation judging my the way he was dressed, instantly came down to check on him and ask if anyone had broken in or if he had been injured. The albino German only shook his head, curling his legs to his chest and resting his forehead on them, hiding the tears that slipped down his cheeks. Ludwig stared for a moment, not sure what to do, before he hesitantly patted Gilbert's back, whispering to him that whatever his problem was, he would squash it like the bug it was, so he had no reason to worry. That didn't seem to help, so he finally just gave up. He lightly kissed the top of his brother's head, whispering that he should stay strong (and possibly go back to sleep) before getting up and going back upstairs.  
It was rare for Gilbert to leak emotions like that, but every once in a while it did happen. Ludwig knew that, but he couldn't help but wonder why this was. He eventually gave up on trying to figure that out as well, and he turned in for bed, hoping to catch a few more minutes of sleep before he had to rise with the sun to train Feliciano and Kiku.  
Gilbert, though, would not be going back to sleep. He sat on his bed, just as he did when Ludwig came down, and he cried. He didn't know how long he did it, but it must have been a while. He just couldn't believe that the dream—no, _vision_—was really true. It had to be, though; all of the other ones were...  
Maybe an hour or two later, Gilbert, like a bat, emerged from his cave to find food. He did not, however, expect to find Feliciano standing on his tip-toes trying to reach for the top cabinet and making cute little noises as he did so.  
The albino stared for a moment, not taking the time to ask about his pink and yellow sleeping ensemble (at least he wasn't naked), but then he spoke up. "Eh...Feli, vas are you doing?"  
The Italian squeaked a bit, startled by Gilbert's sudden appearance, and he almost lost his balance. He turned to look at him, a big smile on his face. "Ah! Ciao, Gilbert!" he said happily, waving overzealously to him. "I was just trying to make some pasta! But I can't reach the noodles I made yesterday!"  
Gilbert laughed a little, though it sounded a bit sad. "How did you get them up there in the first place?"  
Feliciano's half-closed eyes sparkled with the laughter that followed his question. "Ludwig put them there for me! He said I was going to get a tummy ache if I made it all in one night and then ate it, so he put them up there and told me I could have them tomorrow, but tomorrow is today now! So I was trying to get them back!" He spoke quickly and emphatically, and his accent didn't help Gilbert keep up with his words, either. He smiled though. Thankfully he was a few centimeters taller than the Italian. He walked over beside him, reached up, and easily took them off of the shelf. He still had to stand up on his toes, but not as high as Feliciano had.  
Said Italian squeaked with joy, bouncing up and down on his toes and clapping. "Yay, yay, yay! Grazie, Gilbert!" he cried excitedly when the albino held out the bag to Feliciano.  
Gilbert smiled a bit sadly. "Bitte, Feli," he replied, and his eyes widened a little when the Italian hugged him. He was still for a moment, but he hugged him back after that moment had passed. The contact with him only made his heart fall even more.  
_That vision..._  
Of course Ludwig decided to walk in, pulling a half-asleep Japanese man behind him that Gilbert assumed was his other ally, Kiku.  
"Vas the hell is going on in here?" he barked threateningly. Italy whimpered quietly and hid behind Gilbert suddenly, waving a little white flag and whispering "white flag, white flag!"  
Gilbert threw on his usual sarcastic smirk and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes glinting with the same false egotism that the always did. "Oh, sorry, West, are you jelly, little bro?" he cackled, and he laughed even more when the vein on his brother's forehead twitched. "Mein awesomeness was just helping Feliciano out with getting some awesome pasta that you totally took from him yesterday!"  
Ludwig sighed. "I see you're feeling better than earlier, bruder," he muttered.  
Gilbert's expression faltered, but only Kiku caught it. _Something is wrong with Ludwig-san's brother..._ he thought to himself, straightening up some to get a better look at him. His eyes were giving away something, but Kiku couldn't tell what it was at the moment. He would make it his mission to find out what was wrong with Gilbert.  
Gilbert chuckled a bit nervously now. "A-Ahaha, of course! I am simply too _awesome_ to stay down like that!" he boasted. Feliciano was watching him now, too. Something really was off...  
Ludwig sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well fine, but Feliciano, Kiku, and I are supposed to be out on the training field already," he replied sternly, "und obviously we are _not_. You will have to make your pasta later," he added to the brunette still hiding behind Gilbert.  
Feliciano whimpered again. "But Ludwig!" he whined. "I don't want to train today! It's really hot and I want to shower and eat pasta and lie around all day long, not go out and work my butt off agaaaiiin!"  
The blond man huffed. "You are _not_ getting out of training, Feliciano, now let's _go_," he barked.  
The Italian whined quietly and slid out from behind Gilbert, giving the albino his pasta. "Here, will you put it back on the shelf for me?" he asked in a defeated tone. Gilbert looked down at him for a moment, just lost in his face, before he snapped out of it and nodded.  
"J-Ja, of course," he replied quickly, turning and putting it back on the high shelf they had struggled to get it off of in the first place. "Ah, F-Feli, why do you want to keep it on this shelf if you can't rea—"  
"Ciao, Gilbert! I'll be back later! We can make pasta together!" Feliciano called from a distance, and Gilbert turned around curiously to see that he was already fully clothed and being drug out into the field by Ludwig as he said this. Gilbert sighed a little and turned to go back downstairs. He wasn't hungry anymore anyway...  
About ten minutes later, after he had gone downstairs and thrown his uniform on, he walked out into the yard that his brother called "the Field" to make it sound more dramatic. He figured that he might as well go out and at least watch them train. Okay, watch Feliciano train, but whatever. He was maybe two-hundred yards away from the start of the track that Ludwig was surely about to make Feliciano and Kiku run when he heard a click.  
He paused. Where did that come from, and what was it? He scanned the perimeter the best he could given where he was standing, and his heart nearly stopped when he saw Arthur Kirkland and Wang Yao, both from the Allies, kneeling behind a bush at the edge of the field. And they had a sniper rifle. _Shit._ The vision! Gilbert didn't know whether he should run to his brother and warn him of the two trespassers or try to sneak closer to them and hear their conversation. In the vision, he had listened to them, and he'd been too late...  
He bit his lip a little. "Gott verdammt noch mal," he cursed, taking a last look at the Brit and the Chinese before taking off, headed for the track. "Ludwig! Wir haben eine große Frage! Kirkland und Yao sind am Umkreis, und sie haben Waffen!" he called, using German in his frantic state.  
Up at the track, Ludwig froze, listening to his brother's call. He cursed and kicked the chain link fence. "Damnit!" he barked.  
Kiku looked out at Gilbert's moving figure for a moment before looking back to Ludwig quickly. "What is he saying? What is happening?" he asked, panicked.  
Ludwig looked to be freaking out, but he didn't respond to Kiku's question. "Honda, Vargas, go meet mein bruder und go with him back inside!" he barked. Kiku nodded quickly with a "hai!" and dashed down toward Gilbert.  
Feliciano only stood confused for a moment (light-headed from not having eaten any pasta yet that morning) before he snapped out of his trance. "Oh! Okey-dokey!" he said quickly, and he trailed after Kiku down the big hill that separated the track and the rest of the yard. Ludwig stayed put, taking a pistol out of his pocket and cocking it.  
Gilbert caught on to his brother's plan, and he nodded a little bit, stopping dead in his tracks. He'd wait for them here, but they better be fast.  
Kiku arrived first, out of breath and shaking. "G-Gilbert, what is happening?" he asked quickly.  
Gilbert shook his head and pushed him toward the house. "Sie haben nicht Zeit, sich um die zu sorgen! Gerade Lauf! Gehen, gehen, gehen!" he yelled. Kiku had no idea what he said, but judging by his tone of voice and the look in his eyes, he was being urgently serious. So he ran to the house, skidding to a halt once inside.  
Gilbert stood and waited for Feliciano, his hands trembling with fear. "Beeilen Sie sich, Feli! Ich kann dich nicht verlieren!" he yelled, his voice cracking with the force of a sob that wanted to escape. He couldn't lose him, he just couldn't...!  
Feliciano ran as fast as he could (without pasta as bait), tripping occasionally down the hill and through the span of grass that separated him from Gilbert. "I-I don't understand what you're saying, Gilbert!" he cried. "B-But I'm coming! I really am!"  
Meanwhile, Arthur was trying to get an open shot while Wang Yao bugged him about it.  
"Suck ball, Kirkland! This useless! You can't shoot even if you want to!" the Chinese man cried out. "Just fire gun already!"  
The blond Brit cursed him while looking through the scope. "Bloody hell, Yao, I can't shoot the blasted thing with you shouting at me!" he retorted.  
Wang Yao sighed, having lost his patience by now, pushed Arthur out of the way and took control of the gun. "Fine! I shoot Axis by myself!" he yelled.  
Arthur didn't complain at first, pulling out binoculars and looking through them for a moment before he scrambled back to sit beside his temporary partner. "Blast, Yao! That Prussian fool's already got Honda inside, and Ludwig's still within the chain link!" he reported.  
The brunet groaned. "Damn! We shoot Italian then!"  
The blond nodded a bit. "Right. He's running, but I think you've got him." Wang Yao didn't reply, he just set up the gun and waited for Feliciano to stop moving.  
And then he got the shot. "Got him!" Before Arthur could say anything, Wang Yao pulled the trigger.  
Feliciano was just ten feet from Gilbert, panting and exhausted and ready to collapse, so Gilbert said screw it and ran the rest of the way to him. He pulled him into a hug. "Feli! Feli, go to the house!" he cried.  
Feliciano was shaking more than Gilbert was. "G-Gilbert, I-I'm scared! What's going on?!" he cried.  
Gilbert shook his head, feeling tears slip down his cheeks. He couldn't lose him, he couldn't...! "Come on, we're almost there, Feli. We'll run together, ja? You just have to r—"  
He felt a searing pain in his chest. What was it? His breathing hitched. He'd turned his back to the enemy. He felt his legs go numb, and his vision swam for a minute.  
Feliciano was bawling now. "G-Gilbert! Gilbert, no, it's okay, I'll run! I'm gonna run, see? You have to run, too! Don't leave me here!" he cried, shaking him desperately. "Come on, don't gooo!"  
Gilbert barely heard him. He nodded a little bit. "J-Ja, come on, let's go," he said quietly. Feliciano nodded, and together the two of them ran to the house, though it was getting harder and harder to keep up with the Italian's pace. His chest was on fire, he couldn't see straight, he couldn't feel his feet anymore. All he was holding onto was Feliciano's hand and his little words.  
"Come on, we're almost there, Gilbert, come on! Dai! Dai!" he kept crying, but Gilbert only heard them as whispers.  
Ludwig finally decided that he should just run down into the house with the rest of them. He hopped the fence easily, landing on his feet and his left hand, and then he ran for it, firing into the trees in case he happened to nick Arthur or Wang Yao.  
He didn't know it, but he did get Yao in the shoulder, and he cried out in pain. "Aiyah! I'm hit!" he wailed, and Arthur had to use his tie as a gag to shut the Chinese man up.  
"Blast all, just be quiet and retreat, you wanker!" he hissed into his ear, slinging the gun over his back and then pulling Wang Yao into the trees and away from the field. "Be happy that you at least hit Beilschmidt..."  
Speaking of Gilbert, he was barely even walking now. Feliciano was crying and trying to push him on, but he just shook his head. He had done what he needed to do; he forced the vision to be wrong. He saved his Feliciano. He was good and ready to...  
Ludwig saw blood on the grass, and he cursed. One of them had been hit. Looking up toward the house, his blood ran cold. Gilbert.  
"Mein gott, nein," he said quietly, eyes wide in disbelief and worry as he watched Feliciano pulling Gilbert by his sleeve to the house, crying and torn to pieces.  
Ludwig cursed those two Allies before he dashed toward the two of them. "Feliciano! I'm coming!" he called. The Italian looked back and nodded a little bit, looking absolutely heartbroken, before he continued in his efforts to keep Gilbert moving. Ludwig cursed, and before he was twenty feet away, he watched as Gilbert dropped to his knees, definitely out cold. Feliciano's hold on his sleeve was the only thing that kept the albino from falling flat on the ground. Ludwig thought the felt time stop. No, not his brother, that wasn't possible.  
He dropped to his knees when he got there, feeling his own eyes start to water. Feliciano just sat on his knees sobbing. Ludwig sighed a little bit, holding back his tears. He got to his feet and then picked his older brother up slowly, cringing as he felt the cold wetness of blood against his chest.  
"Come on, Feliciano," he said quietly, looking to Kiku, who had been standing in the doorway the entirety of the time. Kiku looked back at him with solemn eyes.  
Feliciano sniffled and stood up slowly, not looking at anyone at all. He had no idea that Gilbert would take a bullet for him, whether it was an accident or not, and he was grateful.  
"Kiku, call a doctor," Ludwig commanded, but his voice was quiet and broken. "I believe that we can save him..."  
The Japanese man nodded. "Hai, yes, sir." He disappeared into the house, and then Ludwig stepped carefully inside, followed by a sniveling Feliciano. He went into the living room and carefully set Gilbert on the couch. Then he worked on getting his clothes off, taking all but his pants off.  
"You'll be okay, bruder," he said softly to himself, "just stay strong for me..."  
Feliciano couldn't help but feel like this was his fault. He went into his room, sat on the bed, and then he cried. What if Gilbert wasn't going to be okay...  
-A DAY LATER-  
Gilbert felt stiff and pained and sore all over. _Agh, vas da hell happened yesterday?_ He started to sit up, but he stopped after realizing that there was something across his chest. Opening his eyes revealed that it was an arm. _Vas?_ He looked over to the side, and he nearly had a heart attack: Feliciano.  
"F-Feli?" he whispered, the usual rasp in his voice even more severe. "Vas the hell are you doing in here?" he asked, but it wasn't at all harsh.  
The Italian stirred a little bit, but he only snuggled closer to him, loving the warmth he radiated. "Mm...Gilbert...I was worried...about you..." he mumbled slowly, causing the albino's face to heat up.  
"W-Why?" he asked quietly, his eyes wide in the darkness of what he knew to be his cave.  
The smaller male whined a little bit. "Because L-Ludwig said...you might die," he murmured. "But you didn't...but I wanted to make sure..."  
Gilbert smiled slowly. "Feliciano?"  
"...Yah?" he answered after a minute.  
"Do you want to make pasta later? With me?"  
His response was a soft kiss on the cheek. "Mmhmm...~" he purred. "But...can we sleep some more?"  
Gilbert laughed out loud. "Ja, totally," he chuckled, gently pulling him closer with one arm before slipping back into sleep. Feliciano smiled. _Pasta..._

* * *

XDXDXD Okay okay, there it is XD I was really struggling with some way to wrap it up, lol.


	14. Wirginia

"Okay, dude! If you're gonna work for me and crash at my place, you gotta know some basic American facts. It's a green-card thing, ya know!" Alfred explained boisterously, a huge grin on his face and a sparkle in the eyes which hid behind Texas.  
A timid Toris nodded quickly as he scribbled down what the blond said in his small notepad. "O-Okay, American facts," he repeated with a nervous green gaze.  
Alfred nodded. "Yeah, exactly! So, I'm gonna teach you some stuff, and then you'll take an oral test, and I'll tell ya if you passed! If ya pass, you can crash at my place!"  
Toris repeated his process of nodding and scribbling. "B-But what if I don't pass the test?" he asked nervously.  
Alfred just laughed out loud. "Ah? Don't worry about that, man! I'm a great teacher!" he assured, and before Toris had the time to write that down, he hooked his arm under the thin brunet's and pulled him upright with a sudden jerk. "Come on, man! Let's go do some studying!"  
Toris let out a little cry as he staggered and tried to keep his balance from the tug. "O-Okay! L-Lead the way!" he said quickly, tucking his notepad away with shaky hands.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

"Okay, dude, you think you're ready for your test?" Alfred asked, leaning in his red white and blue beanbag chair to get closer to the Lithuanian sitting across from him.  
"N-No, not really," Toris stammered, busying himself with drowning in his own beanbag chair.  
Alfred "lightly patted" his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Dude, you'll totally do great! You had me as a teacher after all! And I'm the hero!"  
Toris flushed a little and looked away with a shy, awkward chuckle. "Y-Yes, you are the hero," he agreed quietly. Alfred certainly liked that answer.  
"Yeah, man, totally! Okay Toris, your first question! Who was the first president of the United States of awesomeness—and by awesomeness I mean me, America of course! Hahaha!"  
Toris broke into a nervous sweat. What was his name?! "G-George...Washington?" he guessed, praying to every god possible that he was right.  
Alfred beamed and flashed him two thumbs-up. "Perfect, man! Okay, question two; where was good ol' Georgie from?"  
Toris' spirits sunk. That hadn't been in the lesson! How was he supposed to answer? "U-Um, c-can I look at my notes?" he asked quietly.  
At Toris' reaction to the question, Alfred paled a bit. 'Shit, man, don't freak him out like that! You gotta remember he isn't from here,' he told himself in his head.  
His smile returned, albeit not wide and brash, but apologetic and warm. "Hah, sorry, Toris; I forgot that this is the first time you've heard the guy's name before," he apologized, rubbing the back of his neck. "How about another question?"  
Toris' eyes widened a little in both weary shock and confusion. He had never seen Alfred be so considerate before...Then he remembered that he had been asked a question, and with a deeper blush he nodded.  
Alfred smiled a little bit. The smaller male was being pretty damned adorable. "Alright, so what was Manifest Destiny all about?" he asked more quietly now, feeling himself settle into a calmer disposition.  
"U-Um, it was A-America's—I-I mean, _yours_—belief that it was God's will that Americans should settle all the way to the c-coast of the A-Atlantic Ocean?" he tried, attempting to repeat Alfred's definition word by word.  
The blond smiled at his efforts. "It was actually the Pacific Ocean," he said to him. Toris looked ready to faint or cry, something that Alfred hadn't expected. Did he really need him that badly? "Dude, Toris, don't sweat it; I won't count that one since it was really hard," he offered to him.  
Toris' forest green eyes went wide, but relief flooded through them. "A-Are you sure?" he asked.  
Alfred nodded. "Totally man; I'm proud of ya for only missing the name of the ocean. And I bet you could have known it of it was in Lithuanian, right?"  
Toris smiled wearily. "_Ramusis vandenynas_," he said quietly.  
Alfred blanched. "Dude, that's what Lithuanian sounds like?"  
"Y-Yes, isn't it pretty?" Toris asked with a sheepish nod.  
"Totally, dude," the blond said quietly, sort of in awe of it for a moment. Then he blinked. 'Get a grip on yourself, hero man,' he told himself. Then he shrugged it off. "Okay, so, I guess next we'll try the states!"  
Toris nodded. 'I already know a few of these, so this might be easier,' he thought to himself.  
He didn't know how wrong he could be.  
"Come on, man, what's after California?" Alfred pushed.  
"I-I don't know!" he squeaked. "I'm sorry! I'm not yet ready to be crashing at your place yet!"  
Alfred couldn't help but laugh; Toris sounded so weird when he said that. "Colorado, dude. What's next?" he continued, not holding his failure to comply against him; it was the effort that really counted in Alfred's eyes. Toris was trying so hard to learn this stuff in like an hour just so he could live with him and work for him.  
Toris sat in quiet panic for a moment. "C-Connecticut."  
"Next?"  
"...Delaware?"  
"Florida."  
"Geor...gia? Georgia? Is that how you say it?"  
"Ha—Hawaii?"  
"Idaho?"  
"I-Illinoise...I think..."  
"Indiana; I heard of that one!"  
This process of slowly naming the states continued, and America was extremely impressed. Until...  
"Wermont."  
"...What?"  
"Wermont...Th-That's next, right?" Toris asked slowly, beginning to panic.  
Alfred didn't know what to think. "Eh, well, kind of...it's _Ver_mont," he enunciated.  
Toris was confused now, his brow furrowing. Hadn't he said that? "O-Okay," he said slowly, just going with it.  
Alfred nodded. "Next?"  
"Wirginia."  
Alfred nearly did a double take. "You're kidding."  
"Wh-What? What did I do?" Toris asked nervously, seriously freaking out now. He couldn't go back to Felicks, that guy was crazy!  
"You're just saying the beginnings wrong, that's it," Alfred assured him quickly, "but why? You haven't really pronounced anything else wrong...except Illinois..."  
"I-I'm sorry," Toris said quietly.  
"No, no! That isn't bad, dude, that's okay!" he said quickly. "A hell of a lot of people do that, and they're even American, too!"  
Toris nodded slowly. "O-Okay..."  
Alfred picked at his brain. What in the world was going on? "Um, okay, what's next?" he asked, wondering how his response would sound.  
"Washington."  
He stared at the brunet for a moment. "Next?" he asked slowly.  
"V-Vest Wirginia."  
Then it clicked. Alfred was seeing a pattern. "It's just V."  
"Wh-What?" Toris asked; now _he_ was the confused one.  
"It's just your accent, isn't it? On the letter V you say W," Alfred explained further, trying to make sense of it.  
Toris thought for a moment. "Um...I think so...We don't really hawe that letter in Lithuania," he said quietly.  
Alfred grinned. "You said 'have' differently, too."  
Toris blushed and nervously looked away. "I-I'm sorry...I-I can use your letter if I hawe to in order to pass the test..."  
"Wait, wait, wait. Are you really still worried about being able to stay with me?" Alfred asked, both floored and touched.  
"A-A little bit, yes," Toris admitted sheepishly. "I-I don't hawe anywhere to go..."  
Alfred frowned, and then he made a decision. He rose to his feet, and when Toris looked up at him curiously he offered the thinner male his hand. "Time to be the hero again; you can stay here," he said quietly with a smile.  
Toris was overjoyed. "R-Really? Ewen though I didn't pass the test?" he asked, taking Alfred's hand in both of his and then shakily pulled himself up with Alfred's assistance.  
The blond laughed now. "Dude, even if you failed the test, I was always gonna let you stay with me," he said with a teasing wink. "I just wanted to see how determined you were."  
Toris flushed more, and he nodded silently. Then Alfred put an arm around the Lithuanian's shoulders and led him toward the kitchen. "So, can you teach me how to say 'I'm the hero' in Lithuanian?" he asked eagerly.  
Toris giggled quietly. "_Jūs esate gražus ir natūra,_" he said softly.  
Alfred beamed. "Dude, it's so long and awesome! I like it!"  
The brunet smiled. At that moment, he was very glad that Alfred didn't speak any Lithuanian. Because he had actually said:  
_'You are beautiful and kind."_  
"Hey, can you say the V states again?"  
"Wermont, Wirginia, West Wirginia..."  
"That's still so cool!"  
"I-I'm glad to be knowing that you think so...!"

* * *

Hehe, I love this pairing a lot, actually. America is so fun to write in~ ^^ Hope you liked it!


	15. Author's Note!

Okay!

From here on out, and stories posted will be NEW, and they will not be updated as quickly as this dump has been in the past…..*checks watch* thirty minutes.


	16. Beautiful, Dirty, Rich!

This may be the weirdest fic that I've ever come up with for these two. It is also my first. *shot* I just pray I do them justice XD You'll probably think the whole thing is OOC, but it really isn't...Oh well. Enjoy!

* * *

Tino awoke to a faint pulse reverberating around the room. Curious, he sat up, looking around. No, Berwald wasn't there beside him so it wasn't the other man's heart, a sound Tino often heard just before going to sleep and just as he woke. He pondered for a moment, not having any problems at all waking up; his job required him to be up very early anyhow. It was a Sunday, however, so he was allowed to sleep in.

That just meant waking up at seven thirty instead of seven fifteen.

Tino finally let his curiosity take over, and he rose to his feet. Time to find the source of the pulse. And Berwald; he might be important, too.

Barefooted, Tino padded out of their room and down the hallway. The pulsing was more noticeable now. Tino paused and listened hard for the pulse; there seemed to be some sort of quiet melody accompanying it. Did Berwald play the piano? Even more importantly, did they even own one? Tino didn't think so. He kept walking.

"Berwald?" he called out curiously, stepping into the living area on the second floor. "Berwald, is that you?" He received no response. Sighing quietly, he headed for the stairs, where the pulsing and melody that he could now identify as some sort of music. He walked light down the stairs, looking around as he did so. The music sounded like it was coming from the kitchen.

Actually, it was some sort of pop song. And it certainly didn't sound Finish or Swedish...He finally approached the small passage leading to the kitchen. The music was loud, and now certainly recognizable as some sort of American pop song. That isn't exactly what scared him, though.

Berwald was making breakfast. He was dancing and making breakfast.

"Berwald?" Tino asked, eyes wide as he watched him with slight terror.

The taller blond didn't even falter as he paused and looked at Tino over his shoulder. He didn't speak, but Tino could tell something was off.

"Berwald, can I ask what you're doing?" he asked, hesitantly taking a step forward.

He could have sworn he saw a smile. Berwald made a gun with his fingers and then pointed it at Tino. "Bang bang," he said simply, and to Tino's surprise, the song said it as well. Berwald turned back around and continued to make breakfast, swinging his hips a bit and humming as he did so.

Tino shook his head slowly, and then he turned and started to walk out of the room. But something stopped him.

Berwald. He was somehow right behind him now, and he put an arm around Tino's waist.

The smaller man squeaked and nearly had a spaz-attack. "B-Berwald?!"

"Bang, bang," he said again with the faintest hint at a smile. The song spoke with him. "Beautiful and dirty rich." He kissed him on the cheek.

Tino fainted.


End file.
